


when you come to a fork in the road, take it

by ohtempora



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, Retirement, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: Mike doesn't get into the Hall of Fame first ballot, which Ginny knows pisses him off, and knows he won't ever, ever let anyone know.
Relationships: Ginny Baker/Mike Lawson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 163
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	when you come to a fork in the road, take it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maybetwice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/gifts).



> happy yuletide!! 
> 
> had a blast thinking about mike and cooperstown - we know he gets in eventually with the padres hat (and ginny there with him).
> 
> title, of course, from yogi berra.

Mike doesn't get into the Hall of Fame first ballot, which Ginny knows pisses him off, and knows he won't ever, ever let anyone know. 

"I mean, I get it," he says, when she calls him. She's training in North Carolina and he's in San Diego. They got a freak blizzard and Tarboro's basically snowed in; meanwhile Mike is sending her photos of palm trees every chance he gets. "First year on the ballot, other guys deserved it more, I'm not Jeter or Rivera. Hell, I'm not your buddy Trout, where it's already a guarantee. Maybe if I'd played for a bigger market team at some point."

"You stayed with the Padres your whole career," Ginny says. "Come on, Lawson, that means something to the fans. To the voters, too."

He takes a breath, and she knows what he's thinking — what to say, because she's signed contracts with three separate teams by now, first a one year show-me contract in Atlanta after her time in San Diego ran out, and then a longer contract in Anaheim, bringing her back to the right coast, if not the right team. 

"It does," he says finally. "But it's alright. There's nine more years, after all. And there's always the Veterans Committee, if it comes down to that."

"Cut the shit," Ginny says. "I'll see you in Cooperstown next year. I'll make sure they line up my starts so I can watch your speech in person. I'm going to have to rent a car to get there, and then I'm gonna die sweating while you drone into the mic."

"You paint such an appealing picture," Mike says, but she can hear his grin. "When are you coming home?"

"Soon," Ginny says. "I'll see you soon."

Mike drives up from San Diego to get her at the airport, drive her to her place in Anaheim. He works enough with the front office that it makes sense to keep two places in California, makes more sense for the facade of propriety they've got going on. It helps even more that he's coaching in the National League and she's playing in the American League, that they haven't been teammates for years, that she'll only face his team for the occasional series, even though she always ends up with a start back at Petco when it can be arranged that way.

"Mom says hi," Ginny says, waiting until they're in the car to lean in for a kiss. "Will wants to know if you'll be able to come down next year."

"Hopefully," Mike says. He inches out of the lot. "Don't think I'll need to be at spring training until hitters report, but it depends on what's happening in free agency. Who knows if this time around Oscar will want my opinion."

"He's been doing that more," Ginny notes. Keeps it neutral, because Oscar's nothing more than an opposing GM now. 

"Yeah." Mike scratches at his beard. "Not sure how I feel about it. We'll see." 

She's got about a week and a half before she has to head to Arizona. They stay overnight in Anaheim, but Ginny won't be using her apartment until March, and Mike's place still feels like some version of home, even though she hasn't been a Padre in years. 

Mike has to go into the stadium for something in the morning. He leaves breakfast for her, and coffee and a smoothie, and Ginny takes advantage of the time to laze by the pool, soaking in some of the sun she's been missing. 

It would have been nice if Mike was first ballot. She knows he cares, and she knows he'll get over it soon enough. Hopefully next year, with the logjam of worthy players clearing out. 

It would be nicer if she could be up on stage with him when he makes his speech. He'll mention her — she's sure he'll mention her. They're both technically in the Hall, her ball and jersey from the first game she ever pitched, his hat and glove. But there's a lot else he could say and can't.

Mike gets back around lunchtime, bearing takeout food in both hands. "You hungry?"

"I haven't done anything all day," Ginny protests, but she's grabbing plates and utensils. They eat outside. She drapes her legs over his, his hand closing around his ankle, until he speaks up.

"Wanna play catch for a bit?"

Ginny grins. "I think this counts as aiding and abetting the enemy."

"Not like you're a Dodger or a Giant, please." Mike stands up and heads to get his glove. "The kid you're throwing to in Anaheim barely knows what he's doing, and it's not like I can beat any sense into him. You gotta get a taste of what it's like with a real catcher again."

"Mmm, and that's you." She grabs her shoes from where they've been discarded under a lounge chair and laces them up. 

Pitching to Mike is — it came close, with Livan at the end, but there's never been anything like this since. He hasn't been in the majors for more than half a decade, and she's going easy on him, mindful of his surgically-repaired knees, but he barely has to call for a pitch.

Ginny shakes him off once or twice for old times sake.

"I want a slider, she wants the screwball," Mike grumbles, but she can see his grin behind his beard, and the next three sliders she throws pop into his glove, one after another after another. 

It's after a weak fastball and a better slider that Ginny makes up her mind.

"Next year," she says. "When you're in Cooperstown. No — don't start, I'm saying when. Whatever you want to say about me up on stage, you should just say it. It's your speech."

"Ginny," Mike says. He gets up out of the crouch, heads to her like she's missed outside and she's down in the count.

"Can't say I missed mound meetings with you."

"Please," Mike says, and he curves his hand around her waist, rests his glove on her hip. "You know it's gonna be a whole thing, right."

"Yep." She leans against his chest. They never did that on the mound, even though it was a close thing, the year she pitched in relief in the wild card game, the year they weren't talking about anything between them. But even then they both knew. "And you don't have to, it's your day, I want you to have that. I'm just saying. There's the option."

Mike kisses her on top of the head. "I can't tell the story of my career without you, and that's the truth, Gin. Of course I'll say something. Of course I want to." 

She swallows against the sudden ache in her chest. "I love you too, by the way." 

This time he kisses her on the lips. When they break apart Mike's eyes are wet, and Ginny pretends she can't see it as he goes to get back into his crouch. "Three more sliders right where I want 'em and we'll break out the wine I got in Napa when you were gone."

"You got yourself a deal, old man," Ginny says, and winds up. 


End file.
